


trying on my heart just like a crown

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-02
Updated: 2007-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's more than just sex, and possibly that's the part that trips them up the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	trying on my heart just like a crown

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to luzdeestrellas for betaing. I did a lot of editing after she saw it, so all errors are mine. Title from Thea Gilmore.

Dean turns the radio off and says, "So this church is haunted?"

Sam flips through the articles he printed out at the library. "Saint Stanislaus," he says. "Built in 1898. No records of any previous violent deaths on the premises, but--"

"Not exactly the kind of thing a nice parish church would advertise, if they could get away with covering it up."

"No. But the police are baffled. They've got nothing, at least, that they're letting the public know. The doors were all locked, no signs of forced entry, and the priest was murdered in his own sanctuary." He pinches the bridge of his nose, wondering why the caffeine hasn't kicked in yet. He hasn't had a prophetic dream in ages--the visions only come when he's awake now, along with the pain--but he still has nightmares more often than not, and the only other dreams that stick with him lately are the ones about Jess that leave him breathless and aching when he wakes, his grief a soft, familiar thing now that doesn't hurt until he thinks about it.

Dean glances over, and Sam feels the weight of the concern in his eyes--he hates that it's always there now, like Sam's made of glass and going to shatter if Dean isn't there. Hates that it's closer to being true than it's ever been before.

"It's gonna take a couple hours to get there. Why don't you grab some z's?"

Sam thinks about saying no, about sucking it up and staying awake, and realizes there's no point. It won't impress Dean and will only make his headache worse.

He balls up his jacket for a pillow and tries to get comfortable against the window. He feels the fleeting brush of Dean's fingers warm against his throat, and he sighs, letting sleep claim him for a little while.

*

They spend some time at the local library when they arrive, and discover that Elise Easley was the secretary at the rectory, and she was murdered on her way home from work one night in 1999. It's the only other crime remotely connected to the church, and Sam thinks it's tenuous at best, but Dean tends to have an instinct for knowing when there really is something to hunt, and neither of them believes in coincidences.

"She was young," Dean says, looking at the photo of a pretty blonde with wide blue eyes and an upturned nose, "and hot when she was alive. Twenty bucks and a blowjob says she was offed by a jealous boyfriend."

Sam scrubs a hand across his forehead, wondering if there's any possible way he could get his hands on a scrip for some kind of migraine medication. "Dude. Am I really stupid enough to take that bet?"

Dean shoots him a blinding grin. "It's not like you're not gonna suck my dick anyway."

"Whatever," Sam says, because it's not like Dean's wrong, but Sam can't actually tell him he's right, either.

Ten minutes with Google, and Dean's leaning back and tapping his pen against the edge of the table in an annoyingly syncopated rat-a-tat-tat.

"Abusive boyfriend. I called it," he says. He doesn't sound triumphant, though, and doesn't bring up the non-existent bet. When Sam looks up, Dean's face is set in determined lines, his lips twisted in disgust. "She was eight months pregnant when he slit her throat."

Sam swallows hard against the sour taste that brings to his mouth. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

*

Elise's mother is a weary-faced woman with graying blonde hair and swollen ankles. "That rat bastard boyfriend of hers is in Jessup," she says. "He killed my baby, and her baby, when she tried to leave him. What more do you need to know?" She closes the door on them before they can ask where her daughter is buried. Sam can't really blame her for that.

It's late afternoon by the time they get to the rectory, and nobody wants to stick around to talk. Elise's co-workers, for all that they work for the church, aren't so charitable in what little they do say. Nobody says Elise got what she deserved, but Sam feels the sentiment coming off the women in waves, and it turns his stomach.

"That girl always thought she was better than everyone else," the cook says, and the bookkeeper sucks her teeth in agreement. "She thought she was gonna go to Hollywood and be some kind of big star, but she was just a dumb slut who got knocked up by a dumbass like Jerry Trautman."

"Father Burgess told her she'd come to a bad end, but she didn't listen. Was all high and mighty," the bookkeeper says. "In his sermon last week, he used her as an example of pride going before a fall. Sister Augustine indulged her, though. Told her she could do whatever she wanted." The woman sniffs disdainfully. "Wasn't right."

Sam forces himself not to shake the women until their teeth rattle, puts a warning hand on Dean's arm to keep him from doing the same. Instead, he keeps his expression neutral and says, "Is Sister Augustine around? We'd like to speak with her as well."

"She's at a retreat all day today, but she'll be back tomorrow."

"Then so will we." Sam doesn't bother giving them his cell number or asking them to call if they remember anything else. He doesn't think they have anything useful to say.

*

They wait until full dark to check out the crime scene, spend some time eating dinner in a neighborhood luncheonette that's seen better days. The formica table is stained and the fake leather seats are mended with duct tape, but the fried chicken is actually finger-licking good, and Dean looks like he's died and gone to heaven when he dives into the plate of mashed potatoes. They discuss the Orioles game on the television and play a violent version of footsie under the table, until Dean's steel-toed boot connects with Sam's shin a little harder than intended (probably), and Sam withdraws, answering Dean's commentary on the game with monosyllables and ignoring the concern in Dean's eyes, exhausted by having even his random bad moods examined for deeper meaning.

When they leave the diner, though, Dean is all business, got his game face on, and this Sam can do without thinking, slide from low alert to high, adrenaline sparking in his veins and overcoming the ache in his head for long enough to get the job done.

The April rain has made the wooden doors of the church swell and stick, and they squeak when Sam yanks one open. They both freeze, but nobody appears, so they slip inside, comfortable in the dark. The church smells of damp wool and incense, wood matches and melting wax, and their footsteps are silent even on the marble floor.

Something crunches underfoot, and Sam looks down to see a scattering of dirt on the threshold, but when he plays his flashlight over it, he frowns, and points it out to Dean.

"Salt," he says. "Someone knew this place was haunted. Probably why there was no record of earlier murders on the premises."

"Great," Dean mutters. "I hate dealing with amateurs."

Sam squats down to give the spill of salt a closer look. It's gray from being walked on, and scattered thin. "It's old and hasn't been replenished in a while. Maybe there were other hunters passing through here?" As if that's a better option.

"Maybe." Dean bites off the word.

"If other hunters have been here--" Sam lets it hang out there between them for a few seconds. "This could be a problem, Dean."

"Yeah, I bet old Father Burgess ain't too happy about it, either." Dean's teeth flash white in the darkness, more grimace than grin, and then he's turned on his flashlight, as well, the beam illuminating the long nave, the white altar cloth, and then angling up to catch the crucifix.

The EMF meter whines and lights up when Dean turns it on, and they exchange a satisfied glance before walking up the aisle.

Father Burgess had been killed in the sanctuary, his throat slit and his tongue cut out. Yellow crime scene tape still marks the area, and Sam is balanced on one leg, lifting the other over, when he feels the chill of the ghost against his skin. The push is gentle, just enough to send him falling over backwards. He has the presence of mind to keep his head up so he doesn't crack his skull on the marble floor, but he lands hard on his ass and his lower back.

"Sam!" Dean swings the shotgun up, shoots the ghost full of rock salt as it turns towards him, and she dissipates in a puff of cold white smoke.

Dean scrambles to Sam's side and drops to his knees, his hand on the back of Sam's neck warm, strong, comforting. A memory as old as he is, a constant in a life without many, an anchor, a rock. Sam closes his eyes, automatically cataloging the places that hurt, assessing the damage, much as Dean is doing from the outside, running his hands over Sam's legs and arms, the touch light, professional, and yet intimate, making Sam feel well cared for, protected.

He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes; nothing is broken. He's just going to be sore for a few days, and he's sure Dean will mock him mercilessly if he admits how much his ass hurts. But he can do this, can pick himself up and dust himself off, because he's a Winchester and that's what they've been raised to do.

"Okay?" Dean asks, and Sam bats his hands away, though he wants to lean into the touch. He hates feeling needy and vulnerable, and it seems like lately, that's all he's done.

He knows he can put himself back together after every shock, every loss, because Dean does, and because Dean needs him to, and now he can't tell which pieces are his and which are Dean's, and he's not sure it even matters. Maybe it's always been that way, and he never noticed. He was too busy trying to pull away and be complete on his own, spent too much time thinking Dean was holding him back to realize Dean was shoring him up.

Sam grits his teeth, mutters, "I'm fine."

Dean backs off, rises easily and plays his flashlight around the church again. "She's gone for now, but that was definitely Elise."

He offers Sam a hand up as well, and Sam takes it, biting back a groan.

They walk back to the car--well, Dean swaggers, like he normally does, and Sam tries hard not to limp.

"Giddyup, Hopalong," Dean says when Sam doesn't keep up, and Sam grunts in annoyance.

They're waiting for the car to warm up when Dean says, "What?" irritated in the way that fear makes him, and Sam realizes he's been staring at Dean's face without actually seeing it for the past few minutes, because it's so familiar he might as well be looking at himself.

Sam shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the return of his epic headache. He can't imagine what he'd feel like if he'd actually hit his head. "Nothing." The answer is automatic, expected, and Dean relaxes just a bit, though from this close, Sam can see lines around his eyes that were never there before, and maybe other people have those lines from smiling or laughing, and it's not like Dean doesn't smile and laugh, but it's more likely they're from squinting into the sun as he drives mile after mile down long stretches of highway from nowhere to nowhere, or from sighting monsters down the barrel of a gun, or, if Sam is honest with himself, they're from worry, the one thing Dean has never wanted to share with him, except now Sam's got worries of his own, all about Dean, and he doesn't know how to do that, because it's the one thing Dean never taught him, never wanted him to learn.

Dean lets it drop, probably glad Sam doesn't want to talk about it.

*

The ride to the motel is short. Sam shifts around, trying to get comfortable, and Dean smirks like he knows exactly where Sam's hurting and can't wait to tease him about it, but for once he keeps the conversation focused on the job. Mostly.

"I'll go check the county records, find out where Elise is buried. You talk to Sister Augustine and anyone else we missed today. Nuns always like you better, Sammy."

"That's because I'm not always trying to figure out if they're hot under their habits."

"Some of them have to be. Law of averages, right? I just wasn't lucky enough to run into any that semester we spent at St. Anthony's."

"They're _nuns_, Dean. Brides of Christ. You shouldn't go around trying to get them to spread their legs."

"I didn't think Catholics went in for polygamy. Though I suppose Jesus did get some tail in his day."

Sam hunches down in his seat. "If the lightning strikes while you're driving, I'm going to get killed, too. That's seriously unfair."

Dean pats his knee. "It's okay, Sammy. I know you wouldn't want to go on without me." And then he freezes, pulls his hand away slowly, as if he's fighting the urge to snatch it back, the way he can't take back the words he's just said.

Sam knows he should say something reassuring, but he's just as stunned as Dean, because the problem isn't that Dean's right (though maybe he is), it's that Sam's afraid he's wrong. He'd gone on after Jessica, after Dad--it's what people, what _normal_ people do--and he both hates and loves the idea that Dean couldn't go on without _him_, but he's still not sure it's the same for him. Worse, he's not sure he wants it to be.

Instead, he borrows a page from Dean's book of let's not talk about our feelings ever, and says, "My ass hurts."

Dean relaxes just a little, another bullet dodged, no talk about feelings here, no sir. "Dude, I can't believe you got tipped over like a sippy cup."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

And normally--well, what passes for normal in his life now--Sam would grin and reach out and palm Dean's dick through his jeans, and Dean would smack his hand away and say, not now, don't wanna drive into a ditch, scratch up the car, and when they got back to the motel room, Dean would join him in the shower, and they'd get each other off. It isn't hearts and flowers and romance, but it's more than just sex (at least, Sam thinks it is, _wants_ it to be), and possibly that's the part that trips them up the most.

Now, though, Sam just turns and presses his forehead to the window, the glass cool against his skin. He opens it just enough to let the drizzle hit his face, breathes in the scent of new, wet grass and freshly budding leaves.

They spend so much time digging up the dead he forgets sometimes what life smells like.

In his peripheral vision, Sam can see Dean's face go grave and his shoulders go tight again, and he wants to apologize, wants to take back the gesture he's sure Dean has taken as repudiation (and maybe he meant it that way in the moment, but he doesn't mean it now that the moment is past, not really), replace it with something warmer, a hand on Dean's shoulder, or the firm rise of his thigh. He can't, though, and anything he says or does now will be rejected in turn.

It's an odd rhythm, full of dropped beats and oddly timed pauses, but it's theirs, and it's carried them along this far.

*

Sam showers first, hot water easing the aches in his bones, and doesn't even bother with research, just slips into bed and dozes. Though he's sore and tired, he rolls into the heat of Dean's body when Dean climbs in beside him, skin still warm from his shower. Dean huffs a surprised laugh, and Sam can see his mouth curve in a grin as he shoves Sam's briefs and then his own out of the way, and Sam knows his sulk in the car is forgiven, if not forgotten.

Sometimes, Sam thinks this--the hot puff of Dean's breath against his skin, the sharp sting of Dean's teeth against his throat, and the rough jerk of Dean's hand on his cock--is enough. It has to be, because it's all he has. He's given up on anything else, and what he hasn't given up has been taken. He's determined to want what he has--he _does_ want it, wouldn't be doing it otherwise, wouldn't do that to himself or to Dean; he craves the desperate thrust and surge of his hips, fucking into Dean's callused hand, Dean's voice a low whiskey rasp murmuring things like, fuck and Sam and come on, in counterpoint to the ragged gasp of Sam's breathing as Dean jerks him off.

Sometimes, he thinks it's what Dean wants, too, because Dean's never said no, not after the first time (the desperate press of his body against Dean's in the creaky motel room bed, the smell of smoke from their father's body lingering in their hair and skin despite their showers; he could feel the hard line of Dean's dick against his thigh, proof that if he was a freak, at least he wasn't a freak alone. And Dean, as serious as he's ever been, saying, No, Sam, and then, Are you sure? And Sam had said, Yes, Dean, and Please, and Dean, broken somewhere deep inside, had had no strength to say no to that), when Sam convinced him it was what he wanted. What Dean wanted, too, and could never admit.

And Dean is there with him when they fuck--it's Sam's name on Dean's lips, and Sam's hand on Dean's dick when Dean comes. It's just that there are still nights--far more often than Sam would like, though nowhere near as frequent as they used to be--that Dean leaves the motel room and doesn't come back until late enough to qualify as early, smelling of cheap perfume and wearing lipstick on his skin.

He forces those thoughts away, concentrates on the straining thrust of Dean's hips, the hard, hot length of Dean's dick in his hand, the way Dean's eyes always open really wide just before he comes, as if his orgasm is taking him by surprise, and then flutter shut with satisfaction.

It takes Sam a little longer--he's tired and thinking too much--but Dean gets him there, always does, quick strokes rougher than how Sam would jack himself, but Dean knows, somehow, when to ease off and when to push hard--he's got great instincts, always has--and Sam unravels with a long, low moan that sounds like all the air is leaving his body.

They don't kiss or exchange any kind of endearments. Instead, Dean says, "I set the alarm for ten. There's a Dunkin Donuts two blocks away. Get me a bagel if you're up first. Toasted, with cream cheese. And a jelly doughnut."

Sam grunts in response and resolves to sleep later than Dean in the morning so Dean has to get his own damn bagel.

They don't cuddle and Dean doesn't push Sam's hair off his forehead and whisper secrets in his ear the way Jess used to. Sam wonders if he ever will. Sam wonders if he wants him to, wonders why or why not.

Jesus, three minutes post-orgasm and he can't stop thinking. Maybe Dean is right, and there really is something wrong with him, though not any of the stuff they thought. He laughs at himself, and flops over onto his back. It's too warm to curl close, and he's never been much of a snuggler anyway. When Dean rolls to lie on his belly, though, he slings a leg over Sam's, drapes an arm over Sam's waist, and even if he wanted to, Sam is too tired to pull away.

*

They wake to the news that Gladys Freeman, the cook at the rectory, has been murdered.

"Throat slit, tongue cut out," Dean says, dropping the newspaper onto the desk and taking a sip of his coffee. "We gotta salt and burn Elise before she kills anyone else."

Sam scrubs the sleep from his eyes and shoves his feet into his sneakers. "Thank you, Captain Obvious."

The surly reply startles a grin out of Dean, and Sam wonders when the lines got crossed, the roles got blurred, and can't pinpoint a time or a day, just knows that this is who they are now--sometimes he says Dean's lines and sometimes, Dean says his, and it doesn't matter so much, as long as the script plays out the way they need it to in the end.

"Screw the county clerk's office. The nun should be able to tell us where Elise is buried."

*

Sister Augustine, the grammar school principal and head of religious education, eyes them warily, but agrees to talk when Sam promises they aren't reporters.

"Elise had a lot of dreams," she says, ushering them into her office. She moves slowly, the hand that worries at the crucifix around her neck gnarled and spotted with age. "And she had ambition." Sister Augustine sighs heavily. "She also had execrable taste in men." The look she levels at him over the top of her reading glasses makes Sam want to squirm, but he doesn't. Been trained out of it by years of similar stares from Pastor Jim, from Bobby. From Dad.

"Apparently." Dean tries for sincere and comes off smarmy, and Sam wants to smack him.

"When she got pregnant, she came to me, and I told her she didn't have to stay with Jerry. She had choices."

"You were close?"

Sister Augustine nods. "We were friendly. I encouraged her to pursue her dreams. She alienated a lot of people, talked a good game about how she was going to be rich and famous, but I'm not sure she ever really had the confidence to leave, or that leaving would have ended up any better. The news is always full of dreadful things happening to young girls out in Hollywood, but--" She sighs again, lets the crucifix fall against the heavy black material of her habit. "Dreadful things happen everywhere, don't they?"

"Yes, ma'am," they answer in unison, and this time, Dean's sincerity actually comes through.

"Let's cut to the chase, gentlemen. You're not," she waves a hand, "whoever it is you said you were. You're not officially involved in any homicide investigation." Sam shifts, trying to think of a convincing lie to explain the lies they've already told, when she says, "You're here to take care of Elise's ghost."

"There's no such thing as ghosts, Sister," he manages, ignoring Dean's frown.

"There was rock salt scattered in the sanctuary this morning at Mass," she answers. "My arthritis has been acting up recently, and I haven't been able to salt the church since February. I'd been thinking of calling someone in to take care of it, but everything had been quiet until Father Burgess was killed, and I'd hoped Elise had found rest."

"Okay, Sister." Dean says, leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees, before Sam can speak. "You're right. We are hoping to put Elise's ghost to rest. We need to know where she's been buried, and we'll take care of it." He hesitates. "If you don't feel safe, Sam can stay with you."

Sam shoots him a nasty look, which Dean, of course, ignores.

"She's buried at St. Dominic's. I've salted the convent every night for forty years, and I did the church and the rectory when I could, but in this case, I feel perfectly safe." Dean raises his eyebrows in question, and her voice is tart in response. "I have not spent my afternoon badmouthing Elise to all and sundry."

"The bookkeeper," Sam says. "She'll be next."

"Then let's get moving." Dean gets up, leans in to shake Sister Augustine's hand. "Thanks for your help, Sister."

"Elise got a raw deal in her time on this planet," she says, clasping Dean's hand, and then Sam's. "I'd like to think the afterlife is kinder."

"We can hope," Sam answers, and for an old lady with arthritis, Sister Augustine has a strong grip.

When they're back in the car, Dean says, "I bet she was a real looker in her day." Sam laughs and shakes his head. "I'm just saying."

*

It's a routine salt and burn, and Dean calls Sister Augustine when they're done, tells her Elise should be at peace now, and invites her out for drinks.

"Dude, I cannot believe you just invited a seventy-year-old nun out for drinks."

Dean grins at him, delighted, and Sam knows he did it for just that reaction. "She's a pretty cool old broad. She probably has some stories to tell. And I bet she could drink your pansy ass under the table." He cocks his head as if he's thinking, and Sam knows the zinger is coming, waits for it patiently. "Of course, a thirteen-year-old girl could probably drink your ass under the table. Lightweight." But it's affectionate, and comes with the tap of his hand against Sam's chest.

They park the car at the motel, and walk to a nearby bar. Sam lets himself relax a little, matches Dean shot for shot the first few rounds. He's feeling good until he sees the girl cornering Dean at the bar.

He pushes his beer away and goes over. "I'm just gonna call it a night," he says in Dean's ear. He gives the girl--redhead, nice tits--a fake smile and squeezes Dean's shoulder. He's going to say, "I'll leave the chain off the door," when Dean gets up.

"Sorry about that," he says to the girl. "Had a busy day, gotta be up early in the morning." She pouts, but Dean just shakes his head and follows Sam out of the bar.

Sam turns and says, "I didn't mean--I mean--"

"I know." Dean shrugs.

They're back in their room and Sam is pulling his shirts off and thinking about taking a shower when Dean says, "You know I never wanted this for you, right?"

"What?"

"Never wanted you showing up on the government's radar. You're not a _criminal_, Sam. Shouldn't have to run like one. Should be able to leave whenever you want."

Sam stops, stunned. "I'm not leaving, Dean."

"Course not, Sammy. Can't now. Not with the way things are all screwed to hell. But you could've--maybe even should've--before."

Sam feels like the ground is shifting beneath him, like there's no place safe to stand. "Should have? Jesus, Dean. What--"

"You had choices." Like Elise goes unspoken, but Sam hears it anyway.

Sam stares at him, and Dean looks down, away, can't meet his gaze. "I still do, Dean. You are not a jealous boyfriend, and I'm not afraid of you. You're my brother, and I--"

"That's exactly what I'm talking about. I'm your older brother. I should have--"

Sam takes the two steps across the room and shoves Dean back against the wall, wishing he could banish the guilt haunting Dean's eyes the way they've banished Elise's ghost.

"You think you forced me into anything? Any of this? You really think you could?"

Dean knocks his hands away, snorts. "Dude, what--"

"I don't know, Dean. I really don't. I did choose this. Maybe it's not the best choice. Maybe we'll end up like Elise--"

"Dude, if you end up pregnant, I am so selling your ass out to _Ripley's Believe It or Not_."

Sam growls in frustration. "Shut up and listen to me for once in your goddamned life. What I'm saying is, I don't know, okay? I would like to think that even without all the shit that's happened since Dad died, I would have chosen this--" chosen you "--eventually, but I don't know, and I never will. And I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow, or in a month, or in a year.

"What I _do_ know is that I've chosen you _now_. I don't have to stay. I don't do anything I don't want to do. Remember? I'm a selfish prick who only thinks of myself. So if I'm here, Dean, it's because I want to be here." He's breathing heavily now, anger mixed with something else--fear, maybe, love, definitely--and rapidly losing ground. He leans in and grazes the sharp line of Dean's jaw with his teeth, feels heat flare in his belly when Dean gasps in response, then pulls back to glare at him. "If you don't want to be here, or you don't want me to be here, now would be a good time to say so."

Dean raises his chin, finally looks Sam in the eye. All he says is, "Sam."

It's all he needs to say, and all Sam needs to hear.

end

~*~


End file.
